


Exposure

by sanerontheinside



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: Alpha Qui-Gon Jinn, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha/Omega, Alternate Universe - Bodyguard, M/M, Omega Obi-Wan Kenobi, suppressants are gone what will we do AND/OR Identity reveal/exposed as an omega
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-29
Updated: 2020-12-02
Packaged: 2021-03-04 00:14:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,299
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24974416
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sanerontheinside/pseuds/sanerontheinside
Summary: They’d worked together for five years now, and Qui-Gon had never known.He wanted to say,you could have told me.He wanted to object,I could have done more to protect you, had I known.But he well understood why the Kenobi family would have hesitated to say anything at all.
Relationships: Qui-Gon Jinn/Obi-Wan Kenobi
Comments: 33
Kudos: 260
Collections: QuiObi Omegaverse Week





	1. Chapter 1

It was the scent that caught Qui-Gon’s attention first; sweet, but not quite, like a fresh spring breeze. Suppressants, among their many benefits, mostly hid the tell-tale scent of pheromones, both for alphas and omegas. Every now and then, something slipped through—because of attraction, or heightened arousal—but for the most part, the suppressants were very effective scent blockers, as well. 

There were many scents moiling in the chamber. Qui-Gon often joked that all politicians smelled foul, but it wasn’t entirely untrue—some of them were merely unhealthy, bodies poisoned by an overly rich lifestyle. 

And then of course there was the food, and the bitter-sour liquid masquerading as caff. If not for his client’s stash of tea, which the Patrician took with him everywhere he went and shared it graciously with his bodyguard, Qui-Gon would have long since gone mad. Or suffered serious complications from dehydration and died accordingly. 

There was only the suggestion of a scent at first, an itch in the back of his mind—old instincts stirring appreciatively from their long sleep. Gradually, though, what had first registered as no more than a whiff brought in through the window grew into a specter that pursued him through the day. Worse, he began to realise that the scent was somehow familiar—a permutation on something he already knew quite well. He kept picking at the thought, scratching at the memory, trying to figure it out. 

Qui-Gon was rather beginning to think he was losing his touch. For a bodyguard trained and paid to notice things and make connections, he’d been incredibly slow about this. In fact, it wasn’t until the scent followed him back to his client’s suite that he finally understood what his instincts and his nose had been trying to tell him. 

Qui-Gon gently shut the door behind them, then swept the suite for listening devices. He dispatched the two new ones with, perhaps, more than usual viciousness. 

Kenobi seemed to sense that something was the matter. He lingered in the sitting room, removing the ornamental cuffs and the heavily embroidered collar, watching Qui-Gon’s work with interest. 

“Have you been feeling—strange, lately?” Qui-Gon asked him. 

Obi-Wan tilted his head. “Strange in what sense?”

“Any muscle aches, tenderness? Are you feeling flushed, perhaps?” 

The head-tilt turned less curious and more mocking. “You’re asking if I’ve noticed someone tampered with my heat-suppressants, is that it?” Obi-Wan asked, sharp and defensive. 

The prized negotiator of Stewjon’s court, the pride of the Kenobi family—an omega. Qui-Gon raised an eyebrow. 

They’d worked together for five years now, and Qui-Gon had never known. He wanted to say,  _ you could have told me. _ He wanted to object,  _ I could have done more to protect you, had I known. _ But he well understood why the Kenobi family would have hesitated to say anything at all. 

Obi-Wan sighed, shoulders drooping. He tossed the heavily embroidered trappings of his office on the low caff table beside him. 

“You know what they’d do, if it got out,” the Patrician said, with an air of bone-deep resignation. “They’d just marry me off to seal some agreement, and that’s it. End of career, certainly. Hopefully at least a tolerable partner.”

Qui-Gon did know. The court and parliament would find an alpha of rank, one whose nomination as Patrician would benefit the other powerful families of the Asmeru sector. For all that Asmeru claimed to have moved on from strict gender roles, the culture was still rather traditional about these things; or, Qui-Gon thought bitterly, in this particular case, rather backward. Kenobi would be—slowly, but deliberately—pushed into the background, no matter his skill or the support of his people. 

Qui-Gon ached at the thought of this brilliant young man made so vulnerable, exposed to such harsh light. They’d worked together for a long time, long enough for Obi-Wan to have slipped past Qui-Gon’s defences and professional distance. Whether he liked it or not, Qui-Gon now considered him… a friend. 

In the end, the decision wasn’t a difficult one. It wasn’t a decision at all—Qui-Gon simply didn’t see what else he could do. 

“I will make your excuses.” 

Kenobi arched an eyebrow at him, but seemed amused despite himself. “How exactly do you mean to do that?” 

“I’ll think of something.” Qui-Gon had his inroads with the city’s security chief, Lady Yna. Between the two of them they could surely find a way to put negotiations on hold for a few days. “How long do you need?” 

Stopping suppressants was never comfortable, Qui-Gon knew. A natural heat could last between two and five days. Controlled heats and ruts were much more brief, the hormonally driven desire much less distracting. But a break in the suppressant schedule always had consequences—for everyone, omegas and alphas alike. The physical toll was… punishing, usually. 

Obi-Wan looked uncomfortable, perhaps because he didn’t know the answer and hated the uncertainty. “I don’t—five days, I think, to be safe. It’s had a slow start. This could be quick and violent or it could be… ridiculously drawn out.” 

Qui-Gon nodded. “Make yourself comfortable, then. I’ll go visit Lady Yna, see what she wants to do about this. 

“I’ll be back soon,” Qui-Gon added. He wasn’t sure why he did. But something rather like relief crossed Obi-Wan’s features. The Patrician nodded gratefully. 

Qui-Gon bowed, and ducked out of the suite. 

Qui-Gon had never really given thought to Obi-Wan’s love-life. He’d never been required to run additional background checks on anyone, nor to threaten them within an inch of their lives. Entertaining any curiosity on the subject, Qui-Gon felt, would have been unprofessional of him. But a strange feeling slipped through him—relief, almost, with a faint sting of guilt. Qui-Gon quashed it ruthlessly. 

Obi-Wan didn’t have the freedom to seek out intimacy with another person, not even someone to share his meals or a living space with. Qui-Gon filled that space as best he could, but he knew it wasn’t the same. They were fortunate enough to have forged a friendship over the last five years—even that didn’t happen with every client. 

Except now he was emotionally invested. Someone had tampered with Kenobi’s suppressants with ill intent, or maybe slipped him something, and Qui-Gon had missed it. He couldn’t help but take it as a personal failing. His one hope now was that the city’s Security Chief, Lady Yna, would be understanding. 

* * *

Lady Yna proved incredibly understanding. Qui-Gon returned with good news an hour later, in much higher spirits. 

“Negotiations are on hold for the next ten-day at a minimum.” 

“At a  _ minimum? _ ” Kenobi stared at him. “Not that I ever doubted you, but how in the Force did you manage that?”

“There’s been a reported case of Tanavian flu at the city spaceport, necessitating a mandatory ten-day quarantine.” 

The stare turned into more of a goggle. “You’re not serious.” 

Qui-Gon shrugged. “You were going to tell them you’re indisposed?” 

“Well, no—” 

“People will simply be asked to self-isolate for a ten-day to prevent spreading it to the especially vulnerable Neimoidian quarter.” Qui-Gon hesitated. “If it helps, it was the Security Chief’s idea.” 

Kenobi shook his head. “Lady Yna is nothing if not efficient,” he said, but it was with a kind of morbid fascination rather than anything else. 

“Lady Yna takes a dim view of people tampering with the visiting Patrician’s med kit,” Qui-Gon said. 

Obi-Wan glanced up sharply. “You didn’t tell her—?” 

“The specifics? No. I thought it best not to.” 

Qui-Gon had been very sparing with information. Lady Yna was not altogether pleased with being asked to investigate an incident of which she knew no details, but Obi-Wan Kenobi would hardly be the first Patrician to hide a mysterious medical condition during her years of service. 

“Is there anything I can do to make you more comfortable?” Qui-Gon asked. 

Obi-Wan settled back on the couch, teeth worrying at his lip. He looked so much more vulnerable like this, in the privacy of his own rooms. The heavy over-robes were gone, and the pale cream undertunic was partly unfastened, offering a glimpse of fine collarbones beneath. There was a light blush high on his cheeks, and his hair had come loose from its careful braid. 

“I’m all right, really,” Obi-Wan said. 

Qui-Gon didn’t quite believe that, but he let it pass. “I’ve asked the staff to bring up dinner for me. There’s enough for two…” He hesitated. “Should I leave it with you, or would you like company?” 

The look Obi-Wan bestowed on him was pure gratitude. “Please stay,” he said, voice muted. “I must admit, I’ve been trying to think over when it could have happened and I can’t pin it down. I’d feel safer, I think, with a bit of friendly company.” 

Qui-Gon smiled. “I am entirely at your disposal, Obi-Wan.” 

Obi-Wan brightened considerably. By the time Qui-Gon had brought in their dinner and set it out on the low caff table, he looked much more relaxed. He was even smiling, and the line of his shoulders had softened. It was a good look on him, Qui-Gon thought. 

So Qui-Gon did his best to draw the Patrician’s attention away from his current predicament with the first topic that came to mind, which just so happened to be the Eighth Province’s bid to secure mining rights for duranium. 

This was their nightly ritual on long campaigns: Qui-Gon would listen in on the negotiations (largely to keep from getting bored stiff) and would later tell Obi-Wan anything that had caught his interest. Obi-Wan had once remarked that Qui-Gon spoke like he’d served in the diplomatic corps, but he never pressed Qui-Gon for his past. He always listened to Qui-Gon’s insights, and enlisted Qui-Gon’s assistance in working through his own thoughts over their shared dinners. 

And as always, Obi-Wan gamely rose to the challenge. 

Eventually Qui-Gon would have to ask him how he wanted to handle the next few days. Qui-Gon would have to figure out the details of how—and when—he’d give the Patrician his privacy, deliver food to his door and leave an open comm channel in case of injury or other medical emergency. But for now, Qui-Gon kept to light and easy topics. 

Or “light” and “easy”, like the mining rights. 

“The Eighth Province has been trying to get a foothold in the mining business for fifty years,” Obi-Wan was saying, “with little to no success, because no matter how impassioned their petitions the Fifth will always block them with greater resources.” 

“They’ve made a compelling case today,” Qui-Gon said, “but they also have certain technologies they can offer to other provinces. Perhaps it would be better to build alliances with the others before challenging the Fifth again. Certainly others have grown restless in the shadow of their wealthier neighbour.”

Obi-Wan eyed him dubiously. “What other technologies do you have in mind? The Fifth offers a fair number of alternatives at a lower rate.” 

“Underpaid labour and harsh conditions,” Qui-Gon argued. 

“Are you counting on the other provinces’ scruples, or their wallets?” Obi-Wan again tilted his head in that way most found at least vaguely mocking. 

Qui-Gon merely took it in stride, as usual. “I’m sure you can come up with an economic incentive that will work in the Eighth Province’s favour.”

It was a long-time rivalry between the Fifth and Eighth Provinces, fraught with misconduct, corruption, and nearly all-out civil war. Obi-Wan wasn’t biased,  _ per se; _ he felt that securing true financial independence for the Eighth was paramount, but it wasn’t one of his most popular views. The Eighth was, after all, chiefly populated by offworlders and folk from outside the Asmeru system—the climate appealed to a very narrow range of species. But after nearly six centuries of living as a diaspora, the people of the Eighth Province were getting rather tired of being held at arm’s length. Obi-Wan tended to agree. 

To Qui-Gon’s knowledge, the Eighth had come closest to gender equality of any of their provinces, a fact that predisposed him to consider the Province in a kinder light. 

And yet, as they spoke over dinner, Qui-Gon felt his mind straying, and his eyes: Obi-Wan’s skin glowed in the evening light, throwing into sharp relief the long and graceful line of his neck, or a shapely forearm as he gestured, drink in hand. Qui-Gon kept up his part of the debate, but it was as though he was moving through a dense fog. 

It would probably be a relief to wish Obi-Wan a good night and retreat to his own rooms, but Qui-Gon couldn’t make himself move. He sat, lingering well after the sky went dark and the warm light of the lamps turned Obi-Wan’s hair to gold-burnished flame. Qui-Gon might not see him for some five days. He could enjoy this now, even with his mind influenced by the pheromones. It was safe now, and he would keep the memory of it.   
  


* * *

Late that night, Qui-Gon bid the Patrician a good rest, and closed his door with a sigh. He leaned back against it, letting his head drop to the smooth surface. 

Five years: five years he’d guarded and protected the Patrician with his life, and barring the odd thought or a heated dream he’d been able to ignore his lingering attraction. Obi-Wan had always been attractive—it was a fact as inescapable and evident as the sunrise, and bore no further thinking about. But now Qui-Gon had spent evenings watching the man’s thought process, a beautiful, thoroughly logical mechanism in itself. He’d seen Obi-Wan act on impulse, moved by nothing more than kindness; he’d seen Obi-Wan angry, ready to root out the worst of injustices, no matter how costly the effort. 

The Patrician was a good man, the sort who made enemies of quality. He was also exactly the sort of person Qui-Gon would gladly claim as a friend. Qui-Gon had done without romance for many long years, but he was suddenly confronted with the fact that this  _ friend _ had taken root in his heart. 

He was in trouble. 

All night, he’d found his eye catching on little details: the elegant line of Obi-Wan’s throat, the hollow between those fine collarbones. The flush on his skin, the sweep of his hair—golden in the low light. And the smell, great gods—not a single omega Qui-Gon knew had ever smelled so good. 

Qui-Gon cursed, reserving an especially creative phrase or two for overactive alpha hormones. He stripped off his cloak and tunic, stuffing both into the laundry bag and tossing it into the closet in the hopes of hiding any trace of that scent. A shower would, hopefully, take care of the rest. 

Not half an hour later, Qui-Gon lay flat on his back, staring up at the ceiling. He was wide awake, and he was hard. 

It was maddening. He’d been trying to avoid thinking of Obi-Wan in that way, mind skittering away from thoughts of physical attraction like a frightened tooka. But while he’d been trying to remember the day’s events and pin down the moment someone could have slipped Obi-Wan a doctored drink or meal, his memory had snagged on the image of that open-collared tunic, and the smooth pale skin beneath it. And then that little glimpse had unspooled into a fantasy: Obi-Wan’s lean body tensing and writhing beneath his hands, or the weight of him settled in Qui-Gon’s lap. 

Qui-Gon dragged a pillow over his face to smother a low, quiet groan. Dreams were one thing, but fantasizing about the man next door, the man  _ under his protection _ —it felt wrong. 

It was a response to the omega pheromones, nothing more. Inconvenient, but it wasn’t like he couldn’t function. Qui-Gon reached down and took himself in hand, his grip rough and purposeful. 

He meant to finish quickly. But then the air carried past him an errant whiff of that fresh spring scent, and Qui-Gon felt his hand go lax, his arm grow heavier. 

He was not normally so indulgent, but the gentle touch, the light grip, felt good. It felt  _ right, _ like he was performing, showing off for someone. As though Obi-Wan was standing at the foot of his bed, and Qui-Gon was stroking himself for Obi-Wan’s pleasure. Just the idea—Obi-Wan watching him, telling him when to slow down, allowing him to speed up, telling him where and how to touch himself… 

Qui-Gon traced nonsense patterns on his chest with feather-light fingertips, avoiding his nipples, just grazing his navel. He teased the edge of the thick hair below, brushed his fingers through it and shuddered. Truly, he hadn’t been so gentle with himself in a long time. He thought Obi-Wan might like to touch him like this: like someone who deserved gentleness. 

He let his free hand reach between his legs to cradle his balls, letting out a puff of breath at the sensation. Obi-Wan would likely notice that he needed more. He was always observant. He would tell Qui-Gon to tighten his grip, if he wanted. To touch the head, or to rub over the unformed knot. 

Qui-Gon brushed the calloused edge of a fingertip against the sensitive root and gasped, jerking at the touch. Obi-Wan would smile at that, he was sure. Qui-Gon could almost hear him: the soft, pleased laugh, the quiet instructions. He worked himself slowly to those imagined words, all thoughts of a quick release gone from his mind. He wanted to hold on to this fantasy for as long as his mind and body, caught somewhere between dreams and wakefulness, might let him. 

He danced on the edge for long moments before soft-spoken, imagined words fell into his center:  _ come for me, _ he heard, as clear as if Obi-Wan had whispered in his ear. Qui-Gon came with a stifled cry, burying his face in the crook of one arm. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There were few enough chances for him to take a lover. There were few people he _trusted_ enough for that—not to expose him as an Omega for profit, at the very least. But Qui-Gon… Obi-Wan felt, instinctively, that he could trust Qui-Gon Jinn. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> u thought u'd seen the last of me?? hehe ^^

They’d been given adjoined rooms. Qui-Gon could easily lock his side off and give Obi-Wan the privacy he needed for the entire ten-day. 

They shared a garden, though, and in the mornings Qui-Gon meditated among the lyly bushes, then did his stretches and exercises. 

Obi-Wan watched the man as he moved through a series of katas in the garden below, a cup of tea cradled against his chest, warm through the threadbare cloth. He didn’t think he’d ever seen anything more graceful—such a large body, moving with such perfect control… Qui-Gon’s hair had been bound up in a long braid, it whipped around with him as he moved. 

Heat bloomed low in Obi-Wan’s core—and with it, slick. He bit his lip. 

There were few enough chances for him to take a lover. There were few people he  _ trusted _ enough for that—not to expose him as an Omega for profit, at the very least. But Qui-Gon… Obi-Wan felt, instinctively, that he could trust Qui-Gon Jinn. 

Of course, he might refuse. Reasonably so, Obi-Wan admitted to himself, on the simple grounds that he was currently in the Kenobi family’s employ as Obi-Wan’s bodyguard. 

And that was all right. Obi-Wan had what he needed to keep himself sane. He just wanted a little… connection, for once. Rarely did he feel so  _ lonely. _ It was likely the sudden spike of hormones muddling his emotional controls, but logical reasoning did little to soothe this particular kind of ache. 

Obi-Wan eyed his sleeping chamber, where the bed had been piled high with pillows and the covers had been bundled and bunched to form a comfortable, fluffy hiding-place. He wanted to be held, and the nest did something to ease that longing. But it couldn’t possibly match the weight of a body on, around his. Certainly it could not satisfy the craving to be surrounded by someone with Qui-Gon’s large frame. 

Obi-Wan frowned and made a sulky noise into his cup. 

It was tempting to just… ignore this, and carry on as they had before. Qui-Gon would never bring up Obi-Wan’s status again unprompted. Obi-Wan was content—happy, in fact—with their present friendship. He trusted Qui-Gon with his life, with his thoughts and diplomatic quandaries. He even trusted Qui-Gon with his identity. Obi-Wan didn’t want to risk putting any part of their relationship in jeopardy. 

At best, if Qui-Gon refused him, he’d suffer some mild embarrassment and reconcile himself to the lingering feelings he barely acknowledged. But at worst, Obi-Wan might lose a dear friend and even a trusted bodyguard. Surely his temporary  _ comfort _ wasn’t worth that risk. 

Obi-Wan glanced at his communicator thoughtfully. 

Almost before he realised it, his fingers had moved of their own accord.  _ It’s a fine day, _ he typed out,  _ breakfast on the veranda? _

Outside, Qui-Gon paused in his stretches, and glanced down at where his comm must be. Obi-Wan bit his lip, watching as Qui-Gon bent down to pick it up. The curve of that broad back, the ripple of muscles as he moved set Obi-Wan’s heart beating faster. 

He forced himself to type again.  _ I’ve thought about your economic incentives proposal— _

Obi-Wan twitched and deleted the message before he could make things worse. He didn’t want to talk to Qui-Gon about the negotiations, damn it all. He wanted to extend a relatively  _ safe _ invitation: outside, in the fresh air, in a clear breeze with Obi-Wan sitting downwind of him. An invitation Qui-Gon would be free to refuse. 

Outside, Qui-Gon turned and looked back towards Obi-Wan’s windows—right at him, which gave Obi-Wan a small jolt. Obi-Wan smiled, and offered Qui-Gon a jaunty two-fingered wave with the hand that still held the comm. Inside him something trembled—anticipation, perhaps. 

The comm chimed in his hand.  _ If you’re sure, _ Qui-Gon had sent. 

Obi-Wan grinned at him through the window, this time relieved. He stepped aside to dress himself in something more presentable than a threadbare robe. 

As he dressed himself in loose, comfortable clothing, his comm chimed again. 

_ They’ve brought up your favourite pastries, _ Qui-Gon wrote. 

Obi-Wan felt his face heat. That was Qui-Gon’s doing, he knew. Qui-Gon remembered his favourite foods, sometimes snuck them into meals on stressful days. 

From the very beginning, Qui-Gon had been very circumspect in his approach to Obi-Wan’s protection: he’d warned that in some ways it would have to be invasive, and perhaps strip Obi-Wan of certain freedoms he’d enjoyed before. But Qui-Gon, despite his consummate professionalism, proved to be sympathetic, attentive to Obi-Wan’s moods—and given to surprising gestures. 

Like making tea for both of them once he discovered Obi-Wan shared his love of Sapir. Obi-Wan preferred the way Qui-Gon brewed it, now. 

By the time Obi-Wan ventured out onto the veranda, Qui-Gon had stepped back into his quarters. The food cart from the palace kitchens was waiting just outside his patio doors, in the shade. The covered dishes were laden with fruits, breakfast meats, and a selection of small but delicious pastries. The cart’s centrepiece was an ornate tea service—Obi-Wan couldn’t even think where Qui-Gon might’ve gotten it—and the scent wafting from it was unmistakably that of Sapir. 

Another sign of Qui-Gon’s attention to detail, and his consideration. It brought a small smile to Obi-Wan’s lips. He figured he may as well set the table before Qui-Gon returned. 

Muscle memory took over as Obi-Wan’s thoughts wandered freely over such topics as appropriate signs of respect and friendship, and then affection and even courting. Kitrian’s Book of Etiquette was a resource for any and every high society gathering and tradition one could think of, and it was practically imprinted on the brains of the children of every family that wished to consider itself respectable. 

Obi-Wan occasionally amused himself by going over the appropriate gifts and offerings one might grant an ‘omega of breeding’. The omega’s favourite drinks and foodstuffs were a common gift, one that often rated highly in polite society. The Etiquette Manual had been written for social situations where omegas and alphas had little interaction, and it required some careful attention on the part of the alpha to notice what pleased their intended conquest. Qui-Gon treated it as good manners and nothing more than that. 

Qui-Gon was very attentive, but then that was his job as a bodyguard. He trained with Obi-Wan to make sure he wasn’t out of practice, supplemented his training with additional styles Obi-Wan had not known. Qui-Gon had also once given him a dagger, when his own had been irretrievably lost to a gutter on a rainy night. Qui-Gon had dragged away the would-be mugger, then handed Obi-Wan his own backup weapon without a word. 

Gifts of that nature, the sort that would allow an omega to protect themselves, had been carefully stripped out of modern editions of Kitrian’s Book of Etiquette. Obi-Wan knew this, because there was a fifty-year-old flimsi copy in the Protected History section of his family’s massive archive. 

Obi-Wan was more than halfway through the arrangement for a “summer garden breakfast”, as prescribed by the Etiquette Manual, when Qui-Gon returned—freshly clothed, his hair damp and his beard trimmed. The sleeves of his soft-worn blue tunic were rolled up below the elbows. 

Obi-Wan sat down, maybe a touch abruptly, surprised and mildly embarrassed by his body’s involuntary reaction. 

He was beginning to realise that he’d perhaps made an error in judgement with their seating. This arrangement spared Qui-Gon from most of the omega scent, which was growing increasingly potent. But Obi-Wan had not considered that he wouldn’t be sparing himself. He found Qui-Gon’s scent comforting. It signalled safety, as it had for the last five years. It was heady and enticing; Obi-Wan would have liked to drown in it. 

This shared meal might well prove to be on the outside edge of his ability. 

Qui-Gon glanced in at him curiously, but said nothing. He reached for the pot of tea and poured each of them a steaming cup while Obi-Wan’s brain tried to catch up.  _ The omega always pours for their alpha guest, _ the modern Book of Etiquette would say in its chapter on hospitality,  _ until such time as the alpha chooses to declare their intent to pursue the courtship. _

“Did you sleep well?” Obi-Wan asked finally, shaking off those fruitless thoughts. 

Qui-Gon passed him a cup. “Very well, thank you. And you?” 

Obi-Wan had spent much of the night tossing and turning, pulling together extra bed covers and pillows until he could sink into the overflowing soft mounds. 

“Eventually,” he admitted. “Thank you for keeping me company last night.” 

It was the closest Obi-Wan could come to admitting he’d craved the alpha’s scent—the herbs and evergreen that his mind forever associated with Qui-Gon Jinn. All evening, he’d found himself riding the edge of giving in to long-buried and little-used instincts. Obi-Wan would discover, suddenly, that he was affecting a pose: just so, to display the long line of his neck to its greatest advantage; his gestures turned wider and smoother, as if he’d been drinking just enough to reach a state of heady lightness. 

A whole courtship dance, of sorts. There was more to  _ presentation _ than putting oneself on all fours and offering one’s ass to a chosen alpha. 

Of course, right now a small but aching part of Obi-Wan wished it could be just that simple. He had no idea how to even broach the topic. 

“You’re quite welcome,” Qui-Gon said, something soft creeping into his expression. “You should eat,” he added, and picked up a plate. 

Obi-Wan watched, bemused, as Qui-Gon filled it quickly and efficiently with all of Obi-Wan’s favourites. Qui-Gon passed him a fully laden plate casually, as though this was something they did every morning. He must have read Obi-Wan’s confusion in the look on his face, because Qui-Gon eyed him with great sympathy. 

“You need to eat,” Qui-Gon said gently. “It makes things easier.” 

“You’ve been caught without suppressants before?” 

Qui-Gon winced. “There were times, yes. Some people are… eager to find out how powerful an alpha is in a rut. Particularly, I suppose, one of my size.” He shrugged. “Their last mistake.” 

Obi-Wan took a healthy swallow of his tea to cover his wholly inappropriate reaction. “Seems foolish,” he said, surprised to find his voice even. He then popped a pastry in his mouth to stop himself from saying anything else. 

“Secondary gender is not a terribly common trait, even among Near-Human groups. They didn’t know what they were dealing with.” Qui-Gon shrugged, leaning back in his seat. “Though, many other species do have their own prejudices and biases. A not insignificant portion of these are influenced by gender in some form.”

Obi-Wan raised an eyebrow. “I suppose it’s good to know it isn’t a sin  _ unique _ to Asmeru. I do wonder how many can compete with our etiquette manuals.” 

Qui-Gon’s laugh was bright and sudden, a shaft of stunning sunlight in the garden. “Oh, I remember! That was heavy reading material.” 

“You’ve read those?” 

Obi-Wan was perhaps more surprised than he should’ve been, but Qui-Gon didn’t take offence. “Required study, I’m afraid, along with all the events and parties and gatherings and celebrations that none of the Provinces even observe anymore, beyond a symbolic volley of fireworks.” 

“Required study—for bodyguard training?” Obi-Wan teased. 

“No, for the diplomatic corps,” Qui-Gon deadpanned, to Obi-Wan’s great delight. 

“Which was your favourite ceremony, then?” 

Qui-Gon’s expression softened. “The Heir’s Holiday.” 

“The one a Patrician declared for his daughter?” Obi-Wan frowned. “Also called the Child’s Holiday, something between a carnival and a birthday celebration.” 

“She’d survived a harsh illness, and kept insisting that everyone around her was far too grim.” Qui-Gon smiled into his tea. “No great ceremonies, no real need for complicated gestures, greetings, delicate choreographed conversations.” 

“A night specifically for fireworks, one might say,” Obi-Wan added. 

“Exactly.” 

Obi-Wan hummed, considering. He plucked a liwi fruit from his plate. The peel proved unusually thin and delicate—a fine variety, with thin skin and sweet pulp. A pile of shredded liwi peel formed on the napkin by his plate in no time at all. 

Obi-Wan remembered visiting schools and children’s hospitals with Qui-Gon at his side. The expression on Qui-Gon’s face had been much the same, then: warm and tender. Obi-Wan’s giant of a bodyguard had, quite unexpectedly, attracted a mass following of clinging, climbing children. They  _ adored _ him, and Obi-Wan felt certain that the adoration was mutual. Qui-Gon indulged them graciously, joined them in their games. 

He even taught them to sneak up on Obi-Wan himself, which was how the newsstreams got their hands on holos worth their weight in gold: the Patrician with blue paint in his hair and red-orange splatters on the front of his robes, and a small purple handprint on his shoulder. Obi-Wan had laughed about it for days afterwards. 

The most mystifying thing about the whole situation was that Qui-Gon had escaped without a single speck of paint on his person. 

Obi-Wan slipped his thumb into the center of the fruit and split it carefully in half, passing one to Qui-Gon. 

_ An omega may show they are receptive to courtship in several ways, but the manner of their response signals the depth of their interest. Sharing a meal that their suitor provided for them is the highest form of acceptance. _

Qui-Gon accepted the liwi with a crooked grin. His fingers brushed against Obi-Wan’s skin as he took it, the brief touch sending an involuntary shiver through Obi-Wan’s body. 

“There’s something I’d like to ask you,” Obi-Wan said at last, forging ahead before his courage failed him utterly. 

Qui-Gon glanced up at him with quiet eyes and an inquiring hum. 

The whole setting—breakfast on the veranda, tea for two, his favourite foods, even Qui-Gon’s voice, that pleased, gentle rumble—it was all so…  _ intimate. _ Obi-Wan caught his breath. 

“I… you don’t have to, well, say anything. If you don’t want to.” Obi-Wan shifted awkwardly. “I just—I was wondering if you might—” 

He’d pitched forward and accidentally swept a spoon off the table, startled when it clattered to the floor. Obi-Wan huffed, frustrated with himself. “Would you be willing to share my heat?” 

Qui-Gon blinked. “You mean—” 

“I’ll manage,” Obi-Wan reassured him hastily, “without assistance. It’ll be fine, but I just—I haven’t been with anyone because of, you know.” 

“Secrecy,” Qui-Gon filled in. “I can understand the complication.”

“Yes, well… it’s been a while.” Obi-Wan picked at his sleeve, embarrassed. He was beginning to regret broaching the topic altogether. 

Qui-Gon reached for him, and covered Obi-Wan’s nervous fingers with his own hand—large, and warm. “I am honoured by your trust,” he said, voice low and gentle. “Anything that is in my power to do to help you, or to make you more comfortable, I will.” 

Obi-Wan felt a sudden twinge of deeper, darker doubt. “This isn’t really about comfort or necessity,” he said quickly, “it’s about want. It’s not your job to—” 

Qui-Gon squeezed his hand gently. “It’s about trust,” he said, like a Master correcting a pupil. “You trust me enough to ask this of me. I trust you not to take advantage of my contract.” He raised a challenging eyebrow, “or am I mistaken?”

Obi-Wan’s jaw dropped before he could help it. He could see the teasing glint in Qui-Gon’s eye, the tiny twitch in the corner of his mouth—a rare and subtle tell, one that Obi-Wan suspected was just for him. He blushed, and dropped his gaze to their hands. 

“Thank you,” he said, nearly in a whisper. 

Across the table from him, Qui-Gon sighed, and his hand slipped away from Obi-Wan’s. Qui-Gon stood—and then he surprised Obi-Wan entirely by picking up his chair and setting it beside him. Qui-Gon sat down again, and—there would be no end to surprises today, it seemed—wrapped an arm around Obi-Wan’s shoulders, and folded him into his side. 

Obi-Wan could feel his very muscles ease, releasing the tension that had been mounting from the moment Obi-Wan first registered the symptoms of an oncoming heat. He took a deep breath—drinking in Qui-Gon’s scent—and all but melted into the man’s side. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Some part of him had relaxed when Qui-Gon voiced his acceptance. It was as though the last barriers he’d set between himself and the start of heat had substantially weakened, and now there were but a handful of threads left holding him back from total collapse._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> picking up where we left off on the omegaverse event

It was some time before they moved. Obi-Wan spent that time trying not to contemplate the enormity of what he was asking, or the limits of what had been offered in turn. Despite the arm slung comfortably around Obi-Wan’s shoulders, doubts plagued him. 

But it was getting harder to hold on to thoughts and anxieties. Some part of him had relaxed when Qui-Gon voiced his acceptance. It was as though the last barriers he’d set between himself and the start of heat had substantially weakened, and now there were but a handful of threads left holding him back from total collapse. 

It would be a relief not to think for a little while. To actually derive pleasure from this biologically, hormonally driven mess, for once. 

Jinn had agreed to give him that, at least, and Obi-Wan was beyond gratitude; it wouldn’t be fair to ask the man for more. All those little signs of courtship and high etiquette Obi-Wan had been scraping together like a collection of oddities—they were simply his inventions, flights of fancy. Obi-Wan felt a faint prickle of guilt for that self-indulgence. It would only hurt him in the end. Once this heat was over, he would have to watch himself, to make sure he didn’t trail after Jinn like a pathetic, love-sick pup. 

“Obi-Wan.” 

It was still strangely difficult to meet Qui-Gon’s gaze. Obi-Wan straightened slowly, eyes down for as long as he could help it. Barely a handful of seconds, as it turned out: two fingertips traced the soft skin over his cheekbone, the gesture astonishingly tender. He couldn’t help but look up. Qui-Gon smiled at him, pressed his palm to Obi-Wan’s cheek, stroked across the mole there with his thumb. 

“We’d better go inside,” Qui-Gon murmured, “it’s getting warm.”

Perhaps it was getting warm, but Obi-Wan couldn’t tell. His own body temperature was rising in preparation for the heat. Although, for the moment, he was all mostly embarrassed blush. 

Obi-Wan swallowed reflexively, and rose to his feet, knees loose and watery. He was grateful for Qui-Gon’s support, too, those large hands under one elbow and around his side, pressed wide just above the sharp point of his hip. Obi-Wan stifled a soft sound at the mere thought of how  _ good _ those hands would feel on his bare skin. 

He was so consumed by every sensation singing at once—the warm alpha scent, the heat of those large, gentle hands, the sense of Qui-Gon’s broad frame at his back like a bulwark against the world. The moment Qui-Gon ushered him inside, out of broad daylight, Obi-Wan felt an almost overpowering relief—and an overpowering urge to curl into his companion. 

Qui-Gon made a quiet noise of surprise, but wrapped his arms around Obi-Wan immediately. Obi-Wan was mindlessly grateful for it. 

“Are you all right?” Qui-Gon asked softly, words murmured into Obi-Wan’s hair. 

It took a moment to get his wits about him again. Obi-Wan rubbed his cheek into Qui-Gon’s tunic, comforted by the rumble of that voice beneath his ear. “Yes.” 

It was a lie, of course. Perhaps Qui-Gon knew it, too, because his arms tightened around Obi-Wan’s shoulders and he buried his nose into Obi-Wan’s hair. 

Obi-Wan hadn’t permitted himself to think of how close he’d come to exposure—not really. That someone even  _ knew _ about his status was a shock. They’d gotten close enough to tamper with the suppressants. It was a violation, and it might’ve taken everything from him. He’d been angry before, but not afraid. 

_ Now _ it caught up to him in a rush of adrenaline that left him shaking. Qui-Gon muttered something, possibly a curse, and nudged Obi-Wan into motion, step by step until Obi-Wan found himself pressed into the couch. 

Qui-Gon sat down, careful to leave space between them. Obi-Wan tried not to feel disappointed by that. 

“Are you with me?” 

“Yes,” Obi-Wan half-whispered. “Just—well. Bit of a mess.” 

“Understandable.” 

When he looked up again, Qui-Gon was watching him with a fiercely attentive scrutiny. It was the same wary expression he wore after any attacks on Obi-Wan’s person. The familiarity of it was reassuring in a way, even if the intensity was nearly overwhelming. Obi-Wan couldn’t help it: he ducked his head and laughed shyly. 

“Sometimes I catch myself thinking, maybe they were right,” he admitted. “Politics is no place for an omega.” 

A strange sound escaped Qui-Gon then—a  _ snort; _ something so incongruous that Obi-Wan didn’t recognise it at first. 

“What?” 

Qui-Gon’s smile was sharp, full of angry jagged edges. “Politics is no place for an honest man,” he said, as though correcting a common, minor error. “Beyond that, it’s only a matter of what your enemies can find to exploit.”

“Are you saying I’m an honest man, then?” Obi-Wan raised an eyebrow. 

Qui-Gon grinned, a lopsided and charming expression, no less sharp but in a different way. “For a politician,” he allowed. “I haven’t forgotten that you are as ruthless as you are cunning, Lord Negotiator.” 

Obi-Wan was momentarily so distracted by the address that he pulled a face at Qui-Gon—one of absolute disgust. Qui-Gon laughed at him. 

And he was absolutely gorgeous, limned in the morning light streaming in through the garden windows. Qui-Gon turned his head aside in a completely failed attempt to stifle his mirth. Obi-Wan realised he wasn’t so much staring as he was greedily drinking in every detail of Qui-Gon’s features: the way his eyes lit up when he laughed, the way the crows-feet deepened, and the lines of his smile fell neatly into radiant joy. 

By now Obi-Wan knew exactly where to find Qui-Gon in every holo and vid of his public appearances. The contrast he was now witnessing was breathtaking: a bodyguard with an intimidating build and a severe expression, and a face made for smiling. 

“You did that on purpose!” Obi-Wan sputtered, forcibly wrenching his mind away from the sight. “You know I hate that name.” 

“Yes,” Qui-Gon agreed. “But now you’re thinking about all the ways you can make the Fifth pay for saddling you with the moniker.” 

“None if it seems quite satisfying enough,” Obi-Wan admitted. 

Qui-Gon’s smile turned fond. “Ruthless,” he said, like it was something to be proud of. 

Obi-Wan was staring again. He realised it too late, as Qui-Gon tilted his head and eyed him with curiosity. 

“Sorry.” Obi-Wan cleared his throat and looked away, embarrassed. “I’m—distracted.” And then, because Qui-Gon’s brow furrowed just a little, as if in polite confusion, Obi-Wan clarified: “I find you—distracting.” 

“A-ah. And what am I distracting you from, Lord Patrician?” Qui-Gon rumbled. “Pressing matters of state?”

“Oh, very,” Obi-Wan breathed, reacting instantly and reflexively to the low purr in Qui-Gon’s voice. “Nothing more pressing than getting back at the Fifth for their poor taste in epithets.”

“I suppose I’ll have to assist you in your efforts, then. How about…” Qui-Gon leaned forward, with a conspiratorial air, “we expose the Fifth Minister’s weak policy on controlling foreign contaminants in imported goods?” 

Obi-Wan snorted. “Not that it would work, but I do like your style.” 

“It didn’t work before because nobody knew the Fifth Minister took money from Sonanil Shipping and Transport.” 

“Hm.” Obi-Wan considered this. “Still doubt it would work. Not until it actually becomes a problem for the general public, anyway—remember, right now those policies save time and money on quarantine and delivery of various goods.” 

“Well, I hope you’re not suggesting we manufacture a blight.” 

“Good gracious, no!” Obi-Wan laughed. 

Qui-Gon shrugged. “Just know, your wish is my command.” 

“That’s absolutely terrifying, thank you.”

“Maybe an exposé on invasive species. Lobata vine isn’t native to the lunar territories of the Fifth Province, is it? Come to think of it, it’s not even native to Serenno.”

Obi-Wan groaned and collapsed back against the cushions. “Can’t believe I didn’t think of that. Is it really an extraplanetary invasive species?”

“Not even from the same system, according to a few baffled geneticists.” 

“Which means it must’ve come with traded goods or passengers.” Obi-Wan grimaced. “Would be a hell of a stunt to prove it came with traded goods. There are a lot of environmentally conscious Serenno constituents who would be out for the Minister’s blood.” 

“Well that’s settled, then. Next time Minister Aibni Loe bothers you, we tell everyone the lobata vine was his fault.” 

Obi-Wan shook his head. “Glad you’re on my side.”

“Of course.” 

“But please don’t manufacture a blight for me, even if I ask.” 

Qui-Gon’s lopsided grin was unreasonably charming. “Truthfully, Obi-Wan, I am on your side precisely because you would never ask for such a thing.” 

Obi-Wan’s breath hitched slightly, and he did his best to ignore the way his pulse sped up. “Well now I have some serious questions about your past clients.”

“Obi-Wan.”

Qui-Gon’s voice, low and serious, stopped every thought process still trying to crawl sluggishly through the pre-heat haze. 

“Yes?” Obi-Wan asked, voice faint. Those very blue eyes were watching him like there was no one else in the room. He wanted to shrink back, to hide from the kindness he saw in that gaze. Obi-Wan was sure it had to be obvious. 

But if it was, Qui-Gon was not deterred in the least. “You’re shaking,” he said kindly. “And I find I’m rather curious what it is you’re nervous about.”

“I—” Obi-Wan blinked. “I’m not—?” He couldn’t think. 

Qui-Gon sighed. “Come here.” 

Even if Obi-Wan had been able to refuse—surely the right thing to do, according to his better judgement—the sight of arms open wide in welcome shut down all objections, logical or otherwise. He wanted this— _ needed _ it, as far as his body was concerned. 

Was he nervous? Pressed up against Qui-Gon’s chest, wrapped in the man’s embrace again with his head tucked under Qui-Gon’s chin, Obi-Wan felt the muscles along his spine loosen. It was an instant relief, though he still felt a fluttering in his stomach. 

Qui-Gon hummed, and pressed his hand between Obi-Wan’s shoulderblades. The warmth sank into him, an instant comfort. “When was the last time you touched someone, for something more personal than a handshake?” 

“Probably before taking elected office,” Obi-Wan said after a moment. That was a disturbing thought. 

Qui-Gon must have sensed his disquiet; his arms tightened around Obi-Wan’s shoulders. “You’re safe with me, Obi-Wan. I swear it.” 

That voice, pitched low for the space just over Obi-Wan’s ear, and Qui-Gon’s gentle hold on him—all of it conspired to break Obi-Wan into tiny, vulnerable pieces. “Ben. Call me Ben, like this.”

Obi-Wan  _ was _ nervous. The thought of surrendering control, giving in to the Heat, was absolutely terrifying. But he believed Qui-Gon with every fiber of his being. 

Pressed close to Qui-Gon’s side, listening to the rhythm of his heartbeat, Obi-Wan could leave his body behind right along with its unruly desires—at least for a time. He tried not to think very hard about anything else. 

In a way, Obi-Wan even enjoyed the mounting sensations that would normally be uncomfortable—slickness and heat and heightened senses. He pressed his nose into the base of Qui-Gon’s neck—smooth warm skin against the tip of his nose, close enough to kiss. Despite the knot of nervous anticipation in his throat, Obi-Wan nevertheless found that his nerves settled with Qui-Gon’s citrus-and-evergreen scent. 

And with Qui-Gon’s hands sweeping gently up and down his shoulder and spine. Obi-Wan shivered, just to feel those arms tighten around him again. 

“Are you with me?” Qui-Gon asked, his voice pitched low to a gentle rumble. 

“Yes.” Obi-Wan looked up. “Thank you. For staying with me.”

Qui-Gon smiled down at him. “There’s no need for that. Actually…” His voice trailed off, and his brow furrowed slightly. 

“What is it?”

“There is something I would like to try, with your permission, but I am likely overstepping,” Qui-Gon said wryly. 

Obi-Wan huffed. “I’ve asked you to share my heat. You may have agreed, but I would think if anyone has overstepped, it must be me.”

Qui-Gon blinked. “All right then. The first thing I would like to do—” one large, warm hand slid up Obi-Wan’s back, spreading a kind of lassitude through him as it went, “is kiss you. If I may?” 

Obi-Wan couldn’t hold back a soft sound, something between a gasp and a thin, reedy note of hunger. It was something he’d never thought possible; there was nothing he wanted more. He nodded, the motion shaky and uneven. 

Qui-Gon didn’t move immediately. He watched Obi-Wan, intent, like a man drinking in every single detail. He waited until Obi-Wan was staring at him with parted lips, open and wanting. Only then did he lean in close, to brush the tip of his nose against Obi-Wan’s. It was somehow more intimate than any kiss Obi-Wan remembered in all his life. 

The kiss—when Qui-Gon finally had mercy on him and ended the long moment of suspense—was a thorough exploration. Qui-Gon’s hands came up—one to cradle his face, one to rest against the side of his neck, thumb lying against the notch of the collarbone. Another thin noise broke from Obi-Wan’s throat, and Qui-Gon’s fingers twitched against his skin. 

Eventually, they broke apart. Qui-Gon’s face was flushed; wisps of his hair had escaped his neat braid. Obi-Wan stared at him in a kind of daze, slowly coming to realise that Qui-Gon’s pupils were blown wide with arousal, and that his pulse had sped up under Obi-Wan’s fingertips. That he was somehow, at least partially, responsible for that reaction. 

The smile Qui-Gon gave him was brilliant and joyful. “Lovely,” he murmured, brushing a calloused thumb across his cheekbone. 

That little bit of praise struck deep, finding one last place within Obi-Wan that still hadn’t crumbled and destroying it utterly. He let his head fall back, baring his neck with a quiet gasp, and offered up everything he was. 

He was both gratified and disappointed when all Qui-Gon gave him was a gentle press of lips against the mating gland. 

“There, now,” Qui-Gon whispered against his skin. “We’ve still got a lot to do, you and I. Plan food and drink for the next week, at least. Put a nest together, if you like.” 

Obi-Wan grumbled—much to Qui-Gon's amusement. 

“I’ll comm the kitchen staff,” Qui-Gon said. 

Obi-Wan shuddered as Qui-Gon’s beard brushed against his collarbone. He could hardly bear to let go, but Qui-Gon was right. Obi-Wan hadn’t expected to deal with the heat for hours yet, maybe not until the evening, but already he seemed to be hurtling straight for it. 

Qui-Gon seemed to understand. He made it a point to keep some kind of physical contact between them: holding Obi-Wan’s hands as he pressed himself back into the couch, drawing Obi-Wan’s feet into his lap. The touch grounded him, kept him safe when it felt like his mind was about to float away. 

And Qui-Gon’s fingers wrapped around one ankle like they belonged there, fitting perfectly over the bone. Obi-Wan didn’t think he’d made a sound, but he saw the way Qui-Gon went still, breathed deep as he waited for the maître d’ on the other end to confirm the order. 

The moment it was polite to end the call, Qui-Gon hit the button with maybe a little more than necessary force, and turned a heated look towards him. 

“Well. They need half an hour to make the delivery.” 

Qui-Gon’s voice was calm and quiet, reassuring. It was going to drive him absolutely wild. 

“You don’t have to wait…”

Obi-Wan’s breath hitched, and the alpha’s grin turned predatory. 

“… unless you want to,” Qui-Gon offered. 

Never in his life would Obi-Wan admit to the honest-to-gods whimper that escaped him in that instant. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)


End file.
